


Faliebesch

by fayfayfay



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Ilvermorny, Love Potion/Spell, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-17
Updated: 2017-04-17
Packaged: 2018-10-20 03:58:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10654446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fayfayfay/pseuds/fayfayfay
Summary: Percival Graves is just months from graduation when he finds Credence Barebone crying in the Prefects’ bathroom, the unfortunate victim of a love potion plot gone terribly astray.High School AU with a bit of compulsory sex.





	Faliebesch

**Author's Note:**

> For the purposes of this AU, the Ilvermorny houses have male and female prefects similar to those of the Hogwarts houses. Ilvermony also has a Prefects’ bathroom. 
> 
> The name of the potion is a rather uninspired scramble of "Fake Love" in German (I'm sorry).
> 
> This fic contains self-lubricating orifices as the result of magical intervention and a bit of dubious consent the vein of which you’ll find in similar compulsory sex scenarios. Enjoy!

Percival Graves is a sopping, sweaty mess. If it had been unseasonably warm when he woke before dawn this morning, it is damnably warm now, approaching 60 degrees in a preposterous suggestion of what March in Massachusetts should feel like. His legs always feel jelly-like after a long run, but now they’re shaking, sweating at the knees and itching where the lake mud has spattered up the backs of his calves. He’s drinking water straight from the tip of his wand, murmuring _aguamenti_ s as he meanders down the hall toward the prefects’ bathroom. He sways a bit.

He’s always been a morning person. No matter the late night study session with Seraphina, no matter the raging Thunderbird party he’s dragged to that keeps him out of his bed until the wee hours, he’ll wake to the dark, before the sun peeks over the eastern mountains, and if it’s not raining torrentially he’ll tiptoe from the Wampus dormitories and go for a run. Seraphina’s tried to run with him once or twice, but she’d been clearly miserable, and after that once or twice she hadn't conspired to join him since. 

“Aren’t you tired, when you do this?” she’d asked, as they pushed open the side door to their building. She’d been sweat-soaked, panting heavily. They’d had to turn back after a mile--it’s not that Seraphina is out of shape, just that she much prefers stationary study to the constant movement Percival has made his habit.

Percival had furrowed the thickness of his brow. “No. I think it actually wakes me up a bit.”

Percival had been secretly relieved when she opted to stay in bed the following morning. It's not that he would mind a running partner, just that he prefers the quiet.

A few sport-minded students have been talking about forming a Quidditch club, like the ones at Hogwarts and Durmstrang, and they've asked Percival to consider joining. However, no matter how easily Percival makes friends, the pleasure of team sport has always eluded him. He prefers the solitary meditation of a long run--no shouting, no supporting, no vigilance, no cheering. The earth under his feet lends him a gentle peace, which wraps around the darkness of his mind and holds it still while he traverses the hills and trails.

They say that the Wampus house includes the warrior-minded, who use their bodies to accomplish their warrior-minded goals. Percival likes to think that this communion with the ground gives something to his warrior’s spirit. He’ll never say that out loud, though, risk sounding like an idiot. 

After his morning run, he’ll head to the Prefects’ bathroom--he is no longer a prefect, but still has the code--where he'll take an early, solitary shower, and then enjoy the peace of the dining hall while the first sleepy students wander in to break their sleeping fast. 

Yes, mornings suit him. Even this particular morning, which has him regretting the long sleeves which hang dump and clinging to his forearms. 

Hopping up the stairs in twos, he uses his wand to turn the combination and open the heavy wooden door to the prefects’ bathroom. He’s already thinking about which scented water to use when the sight of another boy catches him horrifically off guard. 

“Oh, I’m sorry, I usually--no one’s usually in here; excuse m--” 

Part of being a Wampus is trusting your brain to work behind the scenes. Percival usually acts before he thinks, trusting that he’ll connect the dots as he moves. This case is no different, and his brain realizes before he does that something is terribly wrong. 

The boy isn’t acknowledging him, and Percival can see why. His arms and shoulders are shaking jerkily, spotted with pink as if his skin might be cold and clammy to the touch. The shape of him is all wrong: he’s in the bath, which is level to the ground, but hanging out of it, over the floor. He’s hunched over impossibly low, as if he’s used to curling his thin, lanky frame entirely into a fetal position. 

As well, he’s turned away from Percival, but Percival can easily see who it is, would know the hair, the skin, the shape of him from a hundred yards away: sunk into the bath, crying, is Credence Barebone. 

Percival had been just as confused, bewildered, and intrigued as everyone else at Ilvermony when Credence had arrived at the school almost two years ago. Some were more educated as to current events than others, Percival included, especially since he lives in New York City with his family during holidays and had been there the previous Christmas, which is when the first sighted Obscurus in centuries had decimated an entire small non-magical neighborhood. 

Credence had been 14 when the parasite made itself known, much older than any obscurial in living memory. Not a lot of people know what happened to him after the obscurus granted him a certain ill founded fame-- _The New York Ghost_ forgot about him, and so did the rest of the wizarding public, gently lettering his name in the ledgers of disturbing historical trivia and moving on with the usual business. 

Then, the following September--Percival’s 6th year at Ilvermorny--a tall, pale boy named Credence had arrived as a 5th year student. Whispers following him, he was chosen by Pukwudgie, moved quietly into his house, and assumed quietly the duties of a model Ilvermony pupil. His exemplary studying habits and good marks, as well as his impressive displays of magic, made him a prime candidate for Pukwudgie prefect the following year. 

A year passed before Percival had had any reason to interact with the boy. He’d enrolled in an upper level healing charms course, because he was crap at healing, and because he imagined the life ahead of him to be a life of constant horrific injury--if the life of an auror was anything like his imagination. 

Percival had been late to class, the first day--his breakfast conversation with Seraphina had run long, Percival trying to console her about her Astronomy independent study, which looked as if it might interfere with her not-inconsiderable workload. The seat next to Credence had been empty. 

The two of them had taken silent notes on healing theory for over an hour before Percival, left handed, had elbowed Credence’s ink pot. Credence’s long, elegant fingers shot out to grasp it before even a drop spilled. 

“Impressive,” Percival chuckled. 

Credence continued to scribble in shorthand.

“I’m Percival Graves,” he said, always cordial.

“Credence,” Credence said, in return. 

After several weeks of sitting next to Credence, Percival felt no less uncomfortable speaking with him. The boy was cagey, bordering on impolite, and Percival had no idea whether it was shyness or ambivalence that made him so prone to silence. Percival kept trying, similarly unaware if it were curiosity or masochism that led him to constantly bother the sallow bookworm to his left. 

“So you’re a prefect, right?” Percival asked him, one day before Christmas break. 

Credence looked down at the “P” badge on his chest, and then looked at  
Percival the way you might look at a door that says “push” and has a “pull” handle. 

“That bathroom is fantastic, right?” Percival asked, letting himself grin.

Credence looked at him again, his dark, arched brows drawing together, and then, he began--just began--to smile. 

The two continued to practice together, partnering out of convenience, and maybe a little curiosity on Percival’s part. A lot of healing is theoretical, and so can be practiced on anything broken, rather than specific living flesh. Percival would meet Credence in the study halls and they would practice on broken plates, clothes, and even once, a plucked and deceased chicken. Percival would usually master the charms after a few intentional rounds of practice, but Credence had extreme difficulty in many cases, often exploding or completely transforming the object of practice before sheer will and determination caused him to fit his tremendous power into such a small, precise charm. Though Credence often took several times the practice rounds Percival required, Percival never got bored of watching him. 

“Incredible,” Percival said once, just as sweat started to crown Credence’s forehead. This broke Credence’s concentration, and he whipped around to level Percival with a singular, heavy stare. 

“It’s just.. You have so much,” he said, unclear and knowing it. “It’s like watching a giant sew dolls’ clothes.”

Credence continued to stare. Percival assumed he was trying to figure out how to toss him from the study hall window without being caught.

“What do you want to be?” he asked Credence, “Y’know, when you leave here?” 

He'd wanted to know for a long time. He wanted to know a lot about Credence, found himself seized with curiosity, but was determined to let it out bit by bit, lest Credence think him obsessive and strange. Of course, he was obsessive, and Credence had the tendency to make him more than a little strange. 

Still, the thoughts: what do you like to read? How do you take your tea? Chocolate or citrus? Where do you live when you're not at school? Do you like dogs? What makes you laugh? What scares you? What could scare you, after what grew inside you?

_What is the ambition of a redeemed obscurial?_

Percival leaned back, suddenly taking in the gravity of the question. He felt a little like an idiot. He grasped for casual words. “I’d like to be an auror.”

“Like a cop,” Credence said. He could tell Credence already knew that.

“Yeah,” Percival nodded. Credence’s eyes wouldn’t leave his. His breathing was just beginning to calm. 

Credence looked at his wand, and then back at the chicken, whose wings had somehow become cloth napkins. The torn skin of the leg was still gaping and open.

“I’d like to be a healer,” Credence said. 

Percival barked a short laugh. He still felt like an idiot, but at least, it appeared, Credence was deluded. 

“You’re too powerful,” he said, and the judgment felt a little damning, a little unfair. 

“What?” Credence asked, unsure of what to do with the judgment, wrapped as it was in a compliment. 

“Your power. It’s too much. For intricate charms,” and then, feeling he misstepped, Percival clarified, “We’re crap at this.”

Suddenly Percival knew why they had gravitated toward each other in Healing Charms. He and Credence, traditionally exceptional students, were both kind of shit at healing. They practiced, and they mastered, of course, but by partnering they were both able to hide their need for constant, miserable, tedious practice from the rest of the class. He knew, then, that Credence was the only one he’d trust with that part of himself. Something about Credence was both standoffish and wholly accepting, as if nothing Percival said or did would ever surprise him. Credence’s level stare wrapped its hands around the dark, restless part of his mind and held it still, allowing for it to breathe and focus. 

“We’re not crap,” Credence said, suddenly, sharply. “They’re difficult for us, but that’s why I like them. They’re challenging.” 

Credence turned away from him, and took a deep breath. A moment later, the chicken was healed. 

In all, Percival didn't know if Credence considered Percival a friend. However, he knew he’d like to be friends with Credence Barebone. He’d always been alright at making friends, and was easy acquaintances with nearly everyone at Ilvermony. 

His acquaintance with Credence has been uneasy, and Percival has had the constant feeling that he's been invited into a house, entered, but then left standing in the foyer, wondering when someone would come and tell him where to go, what to do.

When running, when Percival can’t help but be honest with himself, he thinks about Credence often, and not just the characteristic knit of his brow, or the long, pale limbs that stretched from his uniform. He thinks about that uneasy friendship, and how easy it was with everyone else. He’s come to the uncomfortable truth that maybe it’s so easy with everyone else because nothing is really fitting, or really connecting. Maybe there is something in Credence that he is trying to reach because he knows it matches part of himself, and that is part of himself he doesn't want to quite look at, and so he never has. Maybe it has something to do with sadness, and the dark, quiet part of himself that needs to be held still when he runs by himself across the grounds. Maybe, despite the departure of the obscurus, Credence has that part, too. 

And so, seeing Credence, now, Percival knows he shouldn’t leave. 

He breathes out, soft, and he’s not sure if Credence can hear him. “Credence?” He asks. 

Credence isn’t turning around, and Percival knows something is really, very wrong. Percival bites his lip and closes the door behind him, casting a minor locking charm, just enough to keep anyone else at bay until he can clear all of this up. Credence is upset about something, but it’s not normal; it doesn’t feel normal. 

Once Percival closes the door, it’s apparent how much steam has clouded the bathroom--the windows are fogged completely over, but the bath is full of tepid water. it's impossible for Percival to say how long Credence has been here. Between the steaming air and the sweat still impregnating his clothes, Percival feels incredibly closed in, and he rips his shirt over his head. 

Credence’s head hasn’t lifted when Percival faces him. Percival thinks idiotically for a second that his hair has gotten quite long, since he’s been here, and that he'd like to touch it. He doesn't, though. 

“Credence?” He asks again, and reaches out, tentatively, to touch Credence’s shoulder.

Percival kneels down, and thinks for the first time that Credence, under the perfumed and soapy water, must be naked. “You all there?” He asks, a little stupidly, a little on purpose. The sharp set of Credence’s shoulders tells him nothing. He’s still shaking. His shoulder is cold. 

“Credence,” he says, “You’re freezing.” 

Credence lifts his head a little bit, and the sob doesn’t surprise Percival as much as it makes him feel wholly unprepared. 

“Shit,” Percival murmurs, and what he’s about to say is stupid; he knows it’s stupid, but he’s got to start somewhere. “Are you okay?” 

Credence looks at him, and Percival is expecting that same level stare, the one that Credence must give to people who dress their small dogs in little outfits, the one he must give to people who ask if the obscurus hurt, the one he gives to Percival when Percival says “we’re crap at this”, but that's not the look Credence gives him. 

Credence, instead, is terrified. His eyes are red-rimmed and wide, his skin blotchy. His hairline is wet, and that could be from the bath or from a crown of anxious sweat.

“I don’t know,” he says. 

Percival’s hand hasn’t left his shoulder. He squeezes, a little. The way Credence’s shoulder gives a little, how soft the skin is, it shouldn't affect Percival, but it does. 

“I ate this--I ate this thing, and it was supposed to be for someone else, but I didn’t know that, and--” Credence is breathing fast and wet, and he chokes a little. He’s stopped looking at Percival and is looking at where his arms cross on the damp tile floor. “They were trying to dose each other, I think, but it got mixed up--”

“Dose each other?” Percival asks. Half of him is just relieved that Credence is talking, but the other half is frantically trying to assess how serious this might be.

“Yeah, they were seeing--they’re dating--this couple, and they wanted to see--they brewed some, I don’t know, I forgot what it’s called--”

A hot, molten rock falls into Percival’s stomach. Every few years, a rash of fifth and sixth years would try their hand. The headmaster had banned trying to brew it several times over, and Percival had personally been to a school-wide assembly in his third year addressing the dangers of the potion. 

“Faliebesch,” he says. 

Credence exhales, and his eyes look ready to spill over with fresh tears. “ _Yes._ ”

There are many variations on faliebesch, but the common thread of the related potions is the same: a startlingly intense “love” potion with severe sexual side effects which, when the potion is brewed correctly, cease with orgasm. When it is brewed incorrectly, however, it can leave a witch or wizarding extreme pain for several hours, or until they’ve achieved orgasm a truly uncomfortable number of times, or in a specific way. As Prefect his previous year, Percival had a particularly unpleasant conversation with a girl who’d dosed herself---

“It was meant for her,” Credence exhales. His eyes are wide, and his whole face looks desperate for something Percival thinks might be understanding. “He wanted, the boyfriend wanted… Y’know..” 

“Inside,” Percival provides. He’d dealt with this, before. The effects of the potion are combined with a lubricating spell, and won’t cease until the subject’s partner has orgasmed inside of her. Percival had never heard of this potion being used on a male, though. The implications smack Percival with humiliation, and not a little bit of rage. “How could they be so stupid?” He asks, and the bathroom responds with with a heavy, acknowledging quiet. Credence’s head eases back into the cradle of his elbows. 

“Shit, Credence,” Percival scrambles, “I’m so sorry--I can’t believe… I’m so sorry this happened. Fuck. I’m going to--I’m going to _kill_ them, how foolish--”

Credence’s fists ball into each other until the nails bite into his palms. The tendons if his wrists stand out, pale and shining. “I’m the stupid one,” he says, “I thought, I thought it was mine, it was wrapped so nicely, he left it on _my_ book, I thought it was for me-- _God_ , I’m so stupid--”

“No, no, no, Credence,” Percival begs him, “There’s no way, there’s no way you could’ve known.”

“I should have,” Credence continues to bury his head in his arms, trying to hide the wet waiver of his voice by speaking into his clammy skin, “I thought someone--I thought someone… I’m so _stupid_.” 

The molten rock in Percival’s gut goes cold and spreads out to his limbs. Credence thought someone had left him a gift, and in eating it, was dosed with a foul, illegal potion. Now, rather than feel the righteous anger he should, the type that Percival would feel, he's turned on himself. 

“You’re not stupid,” he says, and what he wants to say, that Credence _should_ have gifts, that he’s smart and confident and beautiful and _deserves_ to be have wrapped gifts left on top of his notebook for him to find, that part dies in his throat. “How--how long? Have you been here?”

It can’t have been long. The room is sweltering, and Credence’s back is still cold to the touch. 

“Before dawn,” Credence says. It’s been at least an hour since dawn. 

“And has it..” Percival knows the answer to the question before he asks. “Has it.. Gotten any better?”

Credence shakes his head. 

“Fuck,” Percival exhales. He’s still kneeling on the tile, and moves to sit cross-legged. “Do you think.. Maybe we should go to the hospital wing? I could help you?”

Credence is shaking his head vigorously now, and Percival can tell he’s about to start crying. 

“Okay, shit, bad idea. Damn. You’ve got to be in so much pain.” Percival thinks for a moment. “And you’ve tried.. You know…” He doesn’t want to say it. “Touching yourself?” 

Credence nods, pulling his elbows in to put his face in his hands. 

“It won’t--it won’t stop,” he says. “It’s been like this for hours. I’m..” He breathes, and it’s that shuddering breath from crying for far too long. “I’m _wet_.”

Percival tries to suppress a full body tremor. Credence is in pain, and suffering, but he’s also naked and aroused and _wet_ and Percival is 18 years old and can’t stop thinking of the implications of that potion. 

Realizing what he’s thinking, Percival makes himself stop and assess the situation: Credence has to get medical help, and soon, or this won’t end until someone _comes_ inside of him. The magic in these potions is unstable, but strong, tied to some of the most basic functions of bodies and of magic. There’s no other way to undo this, no waiting it out. 

“Credence, we’ve got to get you help. I’ve locked the door, I can keep it locked while I go get someone, I can get the nurse--”

Credence’s head shoots up and he grabs Percival’s hand, suddenly tactile. His hand is cold and damp, like his shoulder was. 

“Please, don’t,” he says, “Please don’t leave me. I don’t know… I don’t know how to deal with this. I’m scared.”

“I know, I know,” Percival says, and it’s as if something’s clicked in him. He knows what he has to do now; he’s not here to save Credence, or make his decisions. He’s here to help with Credence's decisions; whatever Credence decides. 

“Percival,” Credence says, and Percival looks at him, shocked. It might the first time Credence has used his name. Credence is looking at him with eyes like Percival’s windows before dawn: huge, dark, and beckoning, telling him there’s somewhere he belongs and he needs to get there, now. 

He takes off his running shorts, but leaves his boxer briefs on. He doesn’t bother standing, just maneuvers to the edge of the tub and sinks in. It’s halfway up his stomach when he’s standing, deep enough that if he sat at the bottom, he would be entirely submerged. Credence turns and looks at him wide-eyed, and he lets Credence’s shock wash over him like so much soapy water. 

“You’re freezing,” he says, and Credence nods as he steps closer. With a wave, Percival wandlessly twists the taps, which pour forth with steaming, fragrant water. Percival starts bringing fistfuls of steaming water to Credence’s shoulders, rubbing his arms down with it, bringing more water to him, washing him with warmth. Distantly, he’s aware of the fact that breakfast is ending, soon. Classes will start. Credence is shivering, still, shaking under the water. 

“Here, like this,” Percival says, and he takes Credence’s hand as he crouches his own body, dipping his shoulders under the water. Credence follows. “Here, there’s a deeper area, where we can stand.”

“I know,” Credence says, and of course he does, he’s a prefect, this is _his_ bathroom, but he follows Percival anyway. When the two are standing neck deep, Percival turns and looks at Credence, whose breathing has calmed, whose eyes are still rimmed with red. Percival tries not to look down, tries not to think about Credence’s body and Credence’s erection. He’s still holding Credence’s hand, and Credence is holding tight with one hand, combing his wet hair back with another. Percival inhales steadily, and builds himself up for what he’s about to ask.

“Credence,” he says, watching the way his shoulders set in a straight, horizontal line, watching the way his jaw shakes just a little bit. “I’m so sorry this happened to you, and I’m not going to try to make you do anything, I’m not, and I’m only going to ask once and you don’t have to explain; I promise,” he draws in a breath, and forces himself to look Credence in the eye. For some reason, he thinks about the time he almost spilled Credence's ink, when Credence's hand shot out so fast to correct Percival's mistake. “Do you want me to help?” He asks, and Credence sucks in a sharp breath. “With this?”

He wants to say a million other things, things like, _I promise I won’t hurt you_ and _I know you haven’t done this before_ and _I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry_ , but he doesn’t, forces himself to stay quiet. Credence’s jaw won’t stop moving, clenching up and down, and finally, after what feels like a lifetime, Credence exhales.

“Yes,” and he begins to nod. “Yes.” 

“Okay,” Percival says, “okay,” and he steps forward, and he wasn’t sure what he was expecting to feel, but the contact with Credence’s newly warm skin shocks him into speechlessness. 

“Percival,” Credence says, for the second time in a lifetime, and Percival nods.

“You can call me Percy,” he says, and Credence nods as he steps forward, as well, and Percival’s hands find his arms, clasping them tight as he brings Credence’s body closer. 

Suddenly, their feet are right next to each other, and Percival finally allows himself to look down. Credence’s feet are long and bony, like the rest of him, and he’s pale and white all over. 

“Damn, Credence,” he breathes. The fogged over window of the bathroom is dispersing a perfectly gray, cloudy sunlight, illuminating Credence’s pallor and setting it in contrast to Percival’s warmer, brown tones.

Credence is still shivering, and Percival shouldn’t be surprised when Credence pulls him forward, but he is. Suddenly he’s wrapped in the boy, and Credence is hugging him in a full-body embrace, still shivering, but enveloped by the warm water of the bath. Percival groans minutely as he takes in the tremendous weight of it: Credence’s thighs are touching his, his middle, his chest, his hot groin is touching Percival’s, and Percival feels his heart rate start to climb and his groin start to tighten and heat with arousal. They’re close in height, but Percival is bulkier and naturally denser, and Credence feels light and small in comparison. Percival wraps his arms around Credence and speaks, because it feels like he should. 

“I’ve got you,” he says, and he knows that Credence’s shivering isn’t from the cold. “I’ve got you,” he repeats, and presses his hips closer, chasing the warmth of Credence’s middle, which is hard and urgent. Credence’s arms go taut around him.

“Percy,” he says, and Percival holds him tighter still. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” he says. “We’re going to fix this, okay?” 

Credence nods against him, and Percival can feel it on his neck. “Okay.” 

Percival draws back, and Credence has a new look in his dark eyes: one that Percival is familiar with because he’s seen it so many times before. It’s determination; it’s will.

Percival draws closer, giving him until the last second to back out, then kisses him. 

Credence’s lips are hot, like he’s been chewing on them for hours, and it’s nice, but not as nice as when Credence’s mouth opens. Credence is whimpering plainly, letting Percival breathe hot into his mouth for a second before Percival dives in to to lick at his bottom lip. 

“Is that good?” He asks the heat of Credence’s mouth, and Credence nods before chasing the kiss, sealing them together again. Something in Credence’s kiss tastes like freshwater, unexpected clarity and unexpected depth. 

Percival only has a second to wonder if Credence has ever been kissed, and doesn’t want to know the answer. 

He grasps Credence’s waist under the water, and Credence’s arms wrap around his shoulders. He’s still shaking, but it has direction now, because they both know they can control it; they both know what’s coming. 

“You’re sure about this?” Percival asks.

Credence blinks once, significantly, and says, “I thought you were only going to ask me once,” and Percival can’t argue with that, and so he doesn’t. 

Once they’ve established contact, Credence makes quick work of Percival’s underwear, which he’s still idiotically wearing, even in the bath. He should’ve known, when he got in, what would happen. He should’ve known when he came into the bathroom, even, or when he sat on Credence’s right even though he knows he’s left handed. 

Naked, he presses again to Credence, whose shivers have become whole-body tremors. 

“I don’t know--Percy, I don’t know how much longer I can wait,” he says, “It’s just--it hurts.” 

At that, Percival discards his feelings of discomfort, his awkwardness. He’s here to help.

With that in mind, he dips to stroke Credence’s thigh, skimming the coarse hair of his thigh, up toward the bottom of him. 

“Can I touch you here?” he asks. 

“Yeah,” Credence says. “Yes, _please_.”

Percival can feel the slickness before he even reaches the swell of Credence’s ass, and even in the water of the bath it’s apparent. 

“Oh, fuck,” he says, “You really are..” 

Credence is flushed, all over, now. He nods and grips closer to Percival. 

“You really are wet,” He can’t help but suffuse, and as he gets closer to Credence’s entrance there’s more, and it’s hot, and slick, and constant. 

“Have you--have you touched--there?” he asks, and again, Credence nods jerkily. Of course he would try; Percival would try anything he could, were he in this position. He'd have called someone, he thinks, unfairly, but he doesn't know who--he thinks again of the practice sessions, of how no one but credence had ever seen him struggle with basic magic before, and he'd trust no one else. 

“Okay, I’m going to touch you a bit closer,” he warns, before sliding over the soft trail of hair, and finally reaching the slick inner skin, which is soft and impossibly warm. A ring of muscle holds him tight, but relaxes when Percival touches it. Percival feels a renewed wave of hatred for the stupid children who accidentally dosed Credence, but pushes it down, focusing on what Credence needs from him now. 

As soon as he applies pressure, Credence moans desperately, head falling back. Percival, taking the positive cue, pushes his fingertip inside, finding it remarkably easy. The lubricating spell won’t stop; it’s pushing out of Credence little by little, with every breath. Percival, whose jaw rests on Credence's shoulder, feels Credence's throat open around a small groan. The skin is relaxed and open, and Percival, who is familiar with how long it takes to open up a virgin body, is shocked. His finger pushes in easily, and Credence’s body welcomes him, hot and clinging. 

Credence murmurs something.

“What was that?” he asks.

“More, please. More.” 

Percival obliges. With one arm wrapped around Credence’s waist, he uses the other hand to blindly open Credence. Moans are escaping Credence’s body like a butterfly leaves an open window: relaxed and steady. Percival is stunned by how open he is within seconds, and comes back to himself in order to lay a kiss on Credence’s neck. 

“Percy, I think--I need you, now,” Credence says, and this is it; he’s going to let Percival into his body. 

“I think--it would be easier, if we were lying down,” he says, and Credence looks to him for a second, as if deciding whether or not to trust him. Then, he nods, and Percival leads him to the steps, where they can emerge from the warm water. The rest of the room is still filled with steam; the water runs perpetual and hot. 

Percival lays out a large white towel from a stack by the window; there’s enough room in the center of the floor that he can comfortably transfigure it into a large sleeping pad. Not a mattress, but it will do, and be kinder than tile. He looks to Credence, who is standing naked and plain. Percival stands. 

“Jesus,” he says. “You’re beautiful.” 

It’s true, too, which almost hurts to acknowledge. Credence is smooth and long everywhere, with knobby knees red and flushed from the bath. His hair is wet and combed back, but sticking to his cheeks and neck, which is a pale column almost as appealing as his flushed red cock, which stands proud against his belly. 

Credence flushes further, and wraps his long arms uncomfortably around his waist, as if to cover himself.

“You don’t--you don’t have to…” Credence starts to say.

Percival knows what he’s trying to do, and won’t have it, changes the subject abruptly. 

“Credence; I didn’t ask--have you done this? This sort of thing?” 

And Credence shakes his head. 

“I don’t, I never…”

Percival approaches him then, grasping his arm, his waist. His brain is working behind the scenes again, his body working on autopilot to try and give Credence what he needs-- “You don’t have to explain. We’re here now. And I'm grateful--well, not grateful for the situation, but still, you are--never mind, it’s stupid.”

Credence shakes his head. “Not stupid.” The flat black of his eyes makes Percival feel like it's impossible for Credence to lie, like he's never told one in his life.

Percival kisses him, closing his eyes easily. When Credence licks into his mouth, he feels the warmth of the bath anew. 

Percival leads them to the sleeping pad, where he kneels down and directs Credence to lie on his side, facing away from him. 

“Here, there now--yeah, just there.”

Credence looks back at him, and the trust in his eyes is tremendous. Percival starts chanting to himself, _God, please, don’t fuck this up._ Something in him knows that it’s important, the same thing that wanted to be Credence’s friend, that admires him for wanting to be a healer and for working three times as hard for mediocre results. 

Credence is lying on his side now, his back to Percival and his side rising with each deep breath. Percival touches him again, and he’s still so slick and open; his fingers swipe into Credence and the warmth of him is incredible. His mind whirls with the pressure of knowing he’s about to be inside of Credence’s body, wrapped in the same slick heat. 

He uses the slickness still on his hand to touch Credence’s erection, and Credence gasps before letting out something between a cry and a whimper. He stills Percival’s hand with his own, looking at him again with those dark eyes that say _now_.

“Percival, please,” he says, “I’m ready.”

“Fuck,” he breathes, “Okay.”

Lying on his side behind Credence, the two are near-spooning. Credence is reaching back to touch him and he obliges, guiding Credence’s hand to his hip. Credence touches him hesitantly, soft strokes before reaching for Percival’s hand on Credence's own hip.

“Let me know if I hurt you, okay?” he says, but that’s the last thing, because he’s guiding himself into Credence. There's a firm, closed pressure against the head of him for a moment, and suddenly Credence opens to him, and he's breaching him, and the first wet press into him sends a roaring fire from his toes to his groin and through his entire body. He feels Credence’s body accept the head of his cock, and the wet pressure is impossible. Credence is breathing hard, gripping his hand. 

“Oh fuck, baby,” he groans, letting the endearment fall from his lips, letting his head fall to press against the nape of Credence’s neck. “Oh, fuck, Credence, it’s so good.” 

Credence lets out a wet chuckle, and Percival checks to see that his erection hasn’t flagged, that he’s not in pain. 

“Credence, I’m going to count, okay?” he says, “I’m going to go in a little at a time, and stop me if it hurts. Please, okay Credence?” 

Credence looks back at Percival and nods, still breathing heavily. “Okay.”

“Alright, this is one.” Percival tucks his hips forward, pressing and letting Credence’s body give way, letting his lubricating insides accept him. 

“...two,” he says, and, “fuck, you’re so, so tight.” He lays a kiss against the nape of Credence’s neck. “How does it feel?”

“Good,” Credence nods, “There’s just… It's so much.” 

Percival presses his face into Credence’s neck, “I know. I'm sorry.” 

Credence nods, his wet hair shining in the sunlight. “S’okay.” 

He pushes further, “Three.” 

Credence’s body is holding tight to him, and when he moves, the lubricating spell gushes again; Credence shakes with the sensation. Percival thinks about how normally he would withdraw a bit, push forward again, but with the spell, he doesn't need to. 

“Four… Five. We’re almost there.” 

“Percy,” Credence is still gripping his hand, “It feels so good.”

“You’re the best thing I’ve ever felt,” Percival says, and he realizes as he’s saying it that it’s true. “God, I could stay here forever.” He nudges forward again. “Six.”

Another gush of lubrication falls around them, and Percival feels it leaking out of Credence steadily.

“Seven,” he says, watching the junction of their bodies meet. He’s almost entirely inside of Credence, whose body is accepting him so easily. Credence’s long back is spread out before him, and he’s panting with the exertion of staying relaxed, open. 

“Eight,” Percival says, and Credence is sitting entirely in his lap. He's pressed entirely inside; his thighs press to the backs of Credence's. 

“Here,” he says, and nudges his arm under Credence's head and neck, to hold it steady. Credence lifts his head and then allows it to fall onto Percival’s arm; Percival nudges forward to press his nose to the nape of Credence's neck and wrap his other arm around Credence's waist. 

“Let me know if this is uncomfortable,” he says, “we can, you know, shift.” 

Credence huffs out a breath, a half-laugh. 

“You've done this?” he asks, “before?”

Percival nods, and, realizing Credence can't see him, breathes out, “Yeah.” 

“Okay,” Credence nods along with him, and, squeezing his hip, says, “I think--I think you can move now? If you can?”

Percival, who has been desperately concentrating on not moving for what feels like years now, breathes, “ _God_ yes,” and _moves_.

Credence arches against him, straightening so that Percival can drive upward into his body. Percival pushes into him gratefully, breathing hot into the nape of his neck. The hot clutch of his body is wet and perfect, accepting him graciously. Percival’s hands roam along Credence's middle, brushing his nipples and cradling his flat stomach before coming to rest at his flushed, hot erection. 

Percival pushes into Credence slowly, then, using the momentum of his hips to rock them into a steady rhythm, becoming almost overwhelmed when he realizes Crecence is steadily pushing back, arching to meet the thrust of his hips. 

“ _God_ , you're so good,” he says, “Are you sure you haven't done this before?”

Credence laughs, a breathy, half way thing, “Don't tell me you're impressed,” he says, “I'm just lying here.”

“You're doing more than that,” Percival says, and he means it. Percival slides, wet and slow, into Credence's body, and the way Credence pushes back to meet him should be illegal--Percival leans back to watch his cock disappear into Credence's insides, only to pull Credence back to him afterward, to hold his body close as he pushes into it. 

“Fuck, Credence--I'm not going to last much longer,” he warns, and Credence nods. 

“No, I know,” he says, as if he could feel the way Percival shakes with restraint, “can we--could you, maybe, get on top of me? On top of my back?”

Percival sucks in a breath, thinking about it--on top of Credence, curled around him, free to fuck into his body. “Yeah, of course,” he breathes.

Credence nods, “Good.”

Before he can ask, Percival watches Credence rise to his knees, letting Percival slip gently out of him. The loss of Credence's body is shocking, but only for a moment as Percival rises, pushing Credence's knees together with his own, bracketing Credence's hips with his hands.

Credence looks back at him, and Percival meets his eyes for a second before pushing in again and falling around him. 

“Credence,” he says, “oh, Credence. You're so, so tight.”

“Oh, _God_ ,” Credence says, and rocks forward a bit before pushing back to meet Percival’s thrust. 

Now, on his knees, fucking into Credence feels like something inevitable, like he can't help but rock back into the sweet heat of him.

Credence's eyes are closed, and his breathing has picked him. “God, I didn't know,” he says, panting with every push of Percival’s cock into his body.

“Didn't know what?” Percival asks.

“Didn't know--how much I needed this, I needed you,” he says, and Percival doesn't know what to say, except--

“I know--me too,” and he reaches under Credence's body to grip and pull at his cock, jerking roughly because he knows Credence should come, has to come before he does, and he's going to come so, so soon. 

Percival feels it before he knows it's happening, before he hears the panting in Credence's throat or Credence's sweet, soft whimpers. Credence’s body stutters, pushing onto his in shorter thrusts before stopping altogether, seizing up and allowing Percival to thrust into it blindly. Percival feels the hot sputters of Credence's release over his hand, and with every pulse of his orgasm, Credence's body seizes around him, clenching onto Percival’s cock rhythmically, and it's more than Percival can take.

“Oh fuck, Credence--oh, fuck, _baby_ ,” he can't help but allow the endearment to fall from his body as Credence's takes all that it can from him; his hands clench to Credence's hips in a way that's almost bruising as he pushes his own orgasm into him, allowing the hot pulses of his come to coat the insides of Credence's body. 

Credence has already begun to fall when Percival’s orgasm comes to its last, stuttering pulses, and the two allow their bodies to collapse onto each other, rolling onto their sides as Percival curls into Credence, riding out the aftershocks.

Percival’s arm tightens around Credence before loosening, allowing for Credence to scoot away, hell, to run away, if he wants to. 

“Thank you,” he says.

“Fuck,” Credence replies, and Percival thinks that may be the first time he's heard him curse. “For what?” 

“For letting me--for having me--fuck, I don't know,” he says, exhausted, but he's smiling, “thank you.”

“Thank you,” Credence says, and grips Percival’s hand before he scoots forward, allowing Percival’s soft cock to slip from him. 

Percival tries not to moan with the loss of Credence's body, trying to remind himself that Credence is not his lover, that he can't ask Credence if he'd like to go again after a quick rinse off. 

“How do you feel?” He asks instead, sitting up to rest on one elbow. 

Credence does the same, using an arm to lift himself to a seated position. He sits cross-legged, his own cock on display, his hips pale.

“I feel.. So much better,” he says, and smiles. “That was.. Easier, than I thought it would be.”

Percival smiles, “it helps, the lube and everything.”

“Yes. Even though--your own, um. Yours. It's bigger than I thought it would be.”

“You’ve thought about my cock?” Percival asks, shocked. Credence flushed again, looking scandalized. His hair is still a bit damp, and Percival longs to reach out and touch it.

“No--that's, that's not what I meant!” Credence says, and Percival can't help but laugh. He suddenly thinks that he feels better than he has in a long time, and that it’s more than just the orgasm recently pushed through his system, that it's something to do with Credence, and his hesitant smile, and his pale hips all on display, just for him. 

“Can I kiss you again?” He asks, and his body is on autopilot again, his Wampus brain just a little bit behind, so when Credence nods, he pushes past doubt, and hesitance, and, pushing up onto one hand, presses his lips to Credence's. Percival lets his eyes fall closed and enjoys the warmth of his mouth, allowing his hands to cradle Credence’s sharp jaw, allowing himself to believe that Credence could be his, if he could work hard enough, if he could push past his own doubt, if he could cradle the darkness inside of him and bring it to meet Credence's so that they could both know that they are not alone, and do not have to be.

“Do you want to do that again?” he asks, when they part, and Credence nods, so, he does. The prefects’ bathroom is mysteriously occupied for quite a long time.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
